


An Ordinary Murder

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bees, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: After too long without cases, Holmes investigates a murder with no truly unique factors to it, other than victim being someone Holmes once knew rather well.





	1. An Ordinary Murder

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote several fics with variations on the theme of 'Sherlock Holmes and Bees' and, though one was chosen (huzzah!), this is not that one. So, dear readers, I'm sharing it with you now. I'll be posting one chapter a day.

When the telegram arrived regarding what appeared to be a rather ordinary murder in the West End, Dr. John Watson hardly expected Holmes to do more than offer a lazy eyebrow and a bit of a sneer. There were no locked doors, no unusualities about the body or scene. The cause of death and even a probable motive seemed to be fairly obvious, as well; thus, the only true 'mystery' about the murder was that the actual murderer had slipped away before Scotland Yard's finest arrived and wanted capturing. Inspector Lestrade hardly needed Mr. Sherlock Holmes' expertise to track down a common killer.

However, Watson had, just the previous day, wired Lestrade about the dearth of cases in the last two weeks, all but begging that he come up with _something_ to distract a very bored and increasingly morose Holmes. Otherwise, the Inspector would probably not have even attempted to seek any help for such a blatant, non-cryptic, utterly routine crime.

"Crime of passion, surely the killer will either be contemplating suicide or trying to flee the country," Holmes said in a flat, lifeless tone. "What's the name of the one unfortunate enough to have been killed in such a mundane fashion?"

"Name's Trevor," Watson replied, displeased that his gambit seemed to have stumbled straight out of the gate. "Ehh... Victor Trevor, according to a letter found in one of his pockets.”

"Victor Trevor?" Sherlock asked, sitting upright on the settee for the first time in possibly ten hours. His tone wasn't full of interest, nor even excitement; Watson would have labelled it 'apprehension' if he could have been sure of a descriptor, at all. His friend's face had gone paler than usual, his grey eyes wide and seemingly startled for just a moment before Holmes schooled his features to something more neutral.

"Yes," confirmed Watson. "The address is—"

Holmes was off the settee and snatching the telegram out of Watson's fingers before he could finish his hunt for the information on the slip of paper, and the detective's dressing gown sailed past Watson's shoulder on its way to the nearest chair as Holmes grabbed his suit coat down from the hook. "I shall have a look, despite the lacklustre appearance of this particular case," Holmes said as he rapidly gathered his overcoat and hat.

"Ah, well, right then," Watson replied in bewilderment tempered by relief. Whatever it was that piqued Holmes' interest, he was hardly going to argue; the man had been well on his way to one of his black moods and Watson would put up with a bit of a flurry and some confusion to see his dearest friend on his feet and engaged again—in just about anything that wasn't self-destructive.

~~~ ~~~


	2. Yes, That Victor Trevor

The whole cab-ride to the address of the crime scene, Watson had a strange tip-of-the-tongue sensation that tickled the back of his mind incessantly. He poked at it, metaphorically of course, trying to sort out whether he was on the cusp of making some kind of connection... was it with the telegram, perhaps, or simply the crime, as a whole? It was maddening, as he had the strong feeling it was glaringly obvious, but no idea why it wouldn't come to him; and it still hadn't surrendered by the time they arrived at their destination.

Watson recognised the large, rather eccentrically refurbished Georgian style house to be one of those old homes which had originally been a single-family residence, later subdivided into small flats. These would no doubt be let out to artists and theatre folk who earned their living in the West End. Along the pavement in front of the building, as well as across the street, several small clumps of gawking neighbours ogled the scene of the crime; uniformed bobbies kept the walk up to the door clear, at least one in the process of explaining something to an elderly woman in a shabby overcoat and crooked spectacles barely clinging to the tip of her narrow nose. 

"One day Lestrade is going to regret allowing such cretins as that one to speak with the public," Holmes grumbled in a low, dark tone, his gaze fixed upon the very constable Watson had been eyeing. "Embellishing and building up the truth until it's an hysterical horror story fit for nothing better than a penny dreadful." 

Watson studied his friend's face whilst Holmes' attention was aimed past him. He wondered what there could possibly be about this murder to bring such a grim mood upon Holmes, who normally was almost chipper upon the start of a new case, or at least in a more neutral frame of mind, until such time as the particulars of the case began to come to the fore. Watson was again sure that he had missed something; hence the strange niggling feeling he had been experiencing?

"Holmes?" Watson queried quietly, concerned as much as he was confused by his friend's mood. 

Holmes glanced over at Watson and, for just an instant, he looked regretful, or perhaps it was something more like disappointment. A moment later his face was virtually expressionless, and he waved a graceful hand in dismissal as he opened the cab door, saying, "Come along, Watson." Next he was hopping down and striding up the pavement, head turning this way and that only briefly in a seemingly cursory glance at the outside of the house and its surroundings. Watson quickly paid their cab driver and did his best to catch Holmes up without actually breaking into a jog, which would not have done his old war-wound much good.

Once inside, arriving only a few seconds after Holmes, Watson saw a constable he recognised from a few other incidences in the past and Inspector Lestrade just then walking to the doorway and stopping. 

"Afternoon, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said. “Didn't expect to see you and Himself on this one."

"Inspector Lestrade. It's been quieter than usual in the criminal world of late," Watson said casually. "If not for your timely wire, we wouldn't be here today, either. I don’t know what exactly caught his attention, but I suppose I've got used to missing things Holmes finds obvious." He added a small philosophical shrug and a huff of mild self-deprecatory amusement.

"Expect it's because he knew the victim," Lestrade said with an understanding nod. At Watson's raised eyebrows, the Inspector raised his own dark brows and tilted his head slightly to peer at Watson. "You think some of us down the Yard don't still read your little stories, hm? It was... let me see..." He pursed his lips and Watson was already giving a silent gasp of enlightenment as the other man went on after snapping his fingers triumphantly. "Yes, it was 'The Adventure of the _Gloria Scott_ ' and you wrote that Mr. Holmes knew Victor Trevor at college."

"Yes," Watson dully confirmed, looking upward as regret and something like dread filled him. How had he forgotten? "You're quite right. I imagine that is, indeed, his reason. Sorry, I should—"

Interrupting him with an understanding nod and a smile, Lestrade said, "Of course, of course, Doctor Watson; didn't intend to delay you."

"Thanks again, Inspector," murmured Watson before hurrying up the stairs as Lestrade and the constable continued on their way.

When he finally reached the doorway he sought, Watson found Holmes standing near the centre of the room, not a yard from the form sprawled upon the floor under a striped sheet with a number of blood stains in a shade that told Watson they weren't yet five hours old, possibly less than three.

The detective stood still, head bent and shoulders slumped, not his usual engaged and energetic stance. Watson hesitated on the threshold, uncertain if he was being overly sentimental on Holmes' part—the man had been so off-hand when referring to Victor Trevor, it hardly seemed likely there was any deep attachment—and yet...

"My condolences, old boy," Watson said quietly. "It wasn't until a few minutes ago that I realised it was _that_ Victor Trevor."

"Yes, _that_ Victor Trevor," Holmes echoed, voice hard and flat as he turned his head a little, but not enough for Watson to actually see his expression. "I had hoped it would turn out to be a coincidence." 

He crouched down abruptly just as Watson was going to speak, effectively halting the words before they began. A deep breath lifted Holmes’ shoulders before he reached down to flick back the stained sheet, revealing the uppermost portion of the body on the floor. Holmes' deep breath exited in a long, low sigh as his whole body slumped minutely, and Watson sighed almost silently in sympathetic acknowledgement of what he knew Holmes had just confirmed. 

"Would you have a look, please, Watson?" Holmes asked quietly as he stood upright again. "They'll have determined the cause of death as stabbing, but I wish to be certain."

"Of course, Holmes," Watson muttered, joining Holmes by the body. A body with what appeared to be easily half a dozen bloody blossoms in the thin cloth covering the chest and mid-torso regions. "It does appear to be the obvious conclusion, but we've encountered such things before, haven't we?" 

Holmes gave a wordless sound of agreement, crouching down again next to Watson as the doctor went on to slowly, carefully examine the corpse. Seven stab wounds in all, three deep into the chest, one almost certainly piercing the heart and another very close. One of those a bit lower down had probably punctured a lung and yet another the diaphragm; plus, it was evident that at least one strike had ruptured the stomach. Watson shook his head, continuing onward as a matter of course, and for thoroughness' sake, but speaking quietly as he did so, "Several of these stab wounds could have been killing wounds, though the heart is the most likely. All of them together? A certainty." Turning the body carefully with a soft grunt of effort, Watson saw no more stab wounds, though some varied bruising and abrasions were evident. "I would guess there was a struggle, based on these lesser wounds." 

"Possibly," Holmes said in a low, musing tone. Watson resettled the body into its former position, glancing at Holmes with a querying frown. Giving Watson a single raised brow, Holmes straightened from his crouch, saying softly, "I would advise reassessing their placement and considering other vigorous activities which can leave similar marks." He moved away, peering at this and that with the magnifying glass he'd only just plucked from one of his pockets, leaving Watson to continue frowning in confusion for about five seconds.

"Ah," he then breathed in enlightenment, unable to avoid a bit of warmth in his cheeks as he took another look with a 'fresh perspective'. "Of course," Watson muttered as he half-turned the body again. 

The signs were clearer, dappled bruises becoming finger marks, abrasions on shoulder blades, knees, and hips becoming 'rug burn'. Having worn such proofs of enthusiastic couplings in his time, Watson felt a bit ashamed of himself for missing the obvious, let alone for _assuming_ something was obvious. He may have been languishing in his own way during their latest 'dry spell', perhaps not as melodramatically as Holmes, but he had best watch himself for such lapses in future fallow times. 

Aloud he said, a little stiltedly, as he looked more closely, "Yes, well... I agree with your assessment. There are signs of... ahem... 'vigorous activities' that were almost certainly... well, before death. No serious harm done... by those... activities, I mean." Watson had examined both patients and corpses intimately before, but somehow this being someone Holmes knew made it awkward. He was grateful Holmes didn't mock him or comment on Watson's fumbling words.

Rising after carefully replacing the body once more, Watson tugged the sheet back over the corpse, noticing that Victor Trevor had been a handsome, well-formed man with somewhat classic features. He would surely have been popular, Watson surmised idly, unable to prevent himself from speculating in the privacy of his own mind; he could appreciate the aesthetic blessings granted by Nature to men as well as women. 

"He was always charming," Holmes said from somewhere beyond Watson's right shoulder. "Never lacked for friends or lovers." His tone was thoughtful, contemplative, and Watson turned to better see Holmes as the other man added with a brief philosophical tilt of his dark head, "I never did figure out why he was willing to be my friend."

"Oh, Holmes," murmured Watson, heart going out to his friend at all the things implied by that simple statement. "You make a fine friend, my dear man; I'm sure you did then, too."

Though he glanced ever so briefly at Watson with a sort of surprised pleasure at the support in the compliment, Holmes still let go a soft, doubting snort the next moment. "I appreciate your loyalty, old friend, but I know I am more a chore than a pleasure much of the time. I was far worse then, I assure you."

Watson opened his mouth to protest, as he usually did when Holmes spoke unflatteringly or derisively about himself, but Holmes lifted a hand to stay him.

"No. No, please, Watson," he said, not at all gently. "Enough. Give me a few minutes alone here, would you? I expect there is a toolshed or similar structure in the small garden behind the building. Go down and have a look, and make note of anything that seems out of the ordinary."

"I... yes, of course, Holmes," Watson said, of a mind to argue at first, but letting it go at the knowledge that this was an old friend of Holmes' and he could very well simply want a few moments to bid that old friend a final, private _adieu_. "Will you come down in a while or shall I return?"

"I'll come down; await me there," Holmes told him with a single nod before turning toward the body once more. As Watson reached the doorway, he was certain he heard Holmes say, in a small, sad voice, "Oh, Vic, you idiot."

The words might've seemed a bit cruel under the circumstances, but Holmes' tone in speaking them was regretful and fond, as if echoing something once said in humour. Watson blushed to overhear his friend, as he hadn't intended to do so, and because he could remember several occasions when Holmes had accused him of being an 'idiot', though with more affection than chastisement, and other times when Watson had done the same to Holmes. Had his friendship with Trevor been like their own? Or had there been more to it?

Watson went down the stairs with a strange curdling of something like jealousy inside, and he felt oddly ambivalent in his speculations on just how close Holmes and Trevor had been. Would he be happy to know theirs had been a particular friendship of the sort unfit for public mention, or would he find his own deeply-buried feelings for his friend harder to bear if he knew that Holmes had felt such things for another once upon a time? Could he avoid wondering _'why not me?'_ in the darkest, pettiest part of his heart?

Shaking his head, hating that he couldn't keep such thoughts out of his mind, Watson was happy to go down and outside to nose about in the garden. He hoped the fresh air might clear those unwelcome and unworthy notions from him, and that the change of venue would possibly distract him from them, if not.

~~~ ~~~


	3. Not As Oblivious As Advertised

Watson found the garden with little trouble. Through the small kitchen on the ground floor and down five wooden steps he went, to arrive in a small, enclosed area at the back of the building. Paving stones formed a square around the perimeter of the otherwise grassy area, flower boxes nestling against the high wooden fencing. In one far corner of the garden grew a trio of trees; a curved wooden bench stood under their intersecting branches, right at one point of the square path. It looked a fine place to sit, being sheltered by the trees, as well as the fence behind them.

Amongst these trees and extending along the fences coming away from their corner grew some dense holly bushes, one side ending at a latching gate in the fence and the other side ending next to a row of wooden box-like structures Watson recognised as those used to house bees with a view toward harvesting their honey. Long, narrow 'drawers' made fine bases for the bees to build upon, and slid upward to allow access by the beekeeper. He only knew the basics, really, but Watson would wager he knew more than the average fellow, thanks to Holmes' fascination with the rather amazing insects. Foremost of what he'd learned was that he had nothing to fear from the bees unless he disturbed their hives or—should one of them land upon him—he harmed one of them, or made it think he was going to harm it; they would not sting arbitrarily, as the act of stinging meant their death. He left the hives alone and continued his perusal of the garden, content to let Holmes, the expert, do any more invasive investigating if he so wished.

The bees were humming away in their hive-boxes, easily several dozen buzzing around in the garden on their little bee pursuits, and Watson noticed a little shed between the hives and the house. Keeping at least a long arm's length from the nearest hive, Watson lifted the simple latch of the shed door and opened it. Inside on the right was a canvas and leather beekeeper's coverall with a matching hood and gloves hung above it. A well-worn pair of tall gumboots stood below, next to a contraption Watson thought might be a smoker; a net bag of what looked like leaves and bark strips—resembling nothing so much as a giant's tea stash—hung on a hook next to the protective garb. On the opposite wall of the shed was a pegboard with various garden tools hung neatly upon it, though there was an empty spot amidst the orderly array, while the rakes and other long-handled garden implements were leaning in the corner just beyond the pegboard. 

Watson frowned as he carefully shut the shed door and turned away toward the house, but stopped when he saw Holmes coming toward him along the stone path. "You've discovered something, have you, Watson?"

Shaking his head ruefully at his friend's perceptiveness, Watson made a beckoning gesture before turning again to indicate the shed. "I may have, but I'm not certain. Have a look in there, Holmes; appears as if one of the garden tools has gone missing."

Holmes looked inside the shed, nodding with a musing sound after studying the interior for a moment or two. He then moved off along the path to examine the rest of the garden in his typically thorough manner, with a significantly longer span of time paused before the hive-boxes without actually touching them. After moving on, he didn't go far before stopping to crouch down and study the flower box nearest the back gate, then the ground around it, and to finally unlatch the gate and look outside into the alley which ran behind the backs of all the houses on the street. In another moment he'd gone out into the alley, leaving the gate open behind him.

Watson went to the gate when Holmes didn't reappear for about five minutes, only to find him standing next to a pair of rubbish bins, which were surrounded by the usual bits and scraps left after a careless dustman has collected the rubbish. Holmes held some torn pieces of paper in his hands, having obviously matched up a few sections to their previous neighbours. 

"A clue?" Watson asked hopefully, making sure not to tread on any of the possibly-pertinent rubbish.

Holmes gathered the torn scraps of paper together and plucked a smallish manila envelope from his pocket, sliding them into it and folding the flap shut before stowing it back in his pocket again. "I think I may have the series of events leading up to the murder, as well as the weapon—thank you, Watson—which was used.” 

Notebook and pencil quickly in hand, Watson said, "Go ahead, then." 

With a sigh, Holmes shook his head as he led the way back into the garden and made a brief flick of his fingers at the nearest flower box. "Not too very long after a... vigorous... session in the bedroom, Victor's lover came out to tend to the flower boxes. The rubbish was collected early this morning, but the dustman was sloppy with the bins, spilling some of the lighter items which had been tossed in atop the rest of the refuse not long before he was due to arrive. The bits of torn paper fluttered to the ground, some caught on the breeze and were carried over the fence to land in the flower boxes."

Making a soft sound of understanding, Watson hazarded an educated guess. "The lover found them.” Holmes nodded once, solemnly. Watson made a 'tsk'ing sound between his teeth, shaking his head. "Must've been enough on the scraps to give _something_ away."

"The ones which have been gathered and then crumpled again are telling enough," Holmes said with a clear undertone of regret and what Watson thought might be disapproval. "A greeting in a woman's hand, with the words 'my dearest Victor', and part of the closing which ends in the words 'dutiful wife, Lavinia'. Damning enough without a few phrases in the middle which seem to be part of some sort of complaint about Victor's not spending enough time with his son."

"Oh, my," Watson murmured, sighing briefly. "And a good bet the lover didn't know about the marriage."

"I would almost guarantee it, given the circumstances," Holmes agreed, adding almost grimly, "and what I know of Victor.” Shaking his head, gaze upon the hive-boxes, he went on in a quiet voice, almost as if talking to himself. "When he'd done something over which one of his friends would most certainly be cross with him, he always used to say, 'What they don't know can't hurt them!'“ 

"That never works for long," Watson chimed in, turning his own attention toward the house. A soft, rueful chuckle from Holmes brought Watson's focus back to his friend, who had rather a bitter mockery of a smile upon his lips and a decidedly bleak cast to his expression. Troubled, Watson stepped closer to ask, "What is it, old boy?"

Holmes looked searchingly at Watson for an almost uncomfortably long time, then seemed to steel himself with a deep breath and the straightening of his shoulders. "Will you sit a moment, Watson?" he asked, indicating the bench under the trees by the hive-boxes. 

"Certainly," Watson agreed readily, following Holmes to the bench with a very strong feeling of apprehension rising in his breast. "I will confess, you worry me, my dear man," he said sincerely as they sat down almost in tandem, Watson half facing Holmes, their knees less than a handspan apart.

Ignoring those words, Holmes loosely interlaced his fingers in his lap, speaking with what Watson thought an almost too casual tone. "Watson, I cannot help but notice you've taken the situation with Victor and his lover very nearly in stride."

Blinking, Watson cleared his throat, toying nervously with his notebook and pencil. "Well, I've seen a bit more of the world than some, of course. You must know how things can be in the military, with the constant threat of death and being so very far from home... well...” Watson shrugged a little, hoping like blazes that he wasn't blushing. "Bonds are formed... comfort sought and given...” He couldn't imagine telling Holmes that he had been one of those who'd given that comfort to another man, as well as receiving it in turn. 

"And outside of the special circumstances of war?" Holmes asked rather cautiously, glancing at Watson in between focussing upon his own fingers.

"I...” Watson would have given an entirely different answer to anyone else in the world, but to Holmes, whom he knew better than anyone else and who knew Watson equally well, he felt he owed nothing but the truth. "The law is the law, of course, but I think we are both men of the world; we know human hearts have their own rule, regardless of law or convention.” He cleared his throat and added quietly, "As a doctor, I've been privy to more than a few confessions from miserable spouses in arranged or loveless marriages of convenience."

Holmes nodded slowly, a twitch of a smile passing across his face almost too briefly for Watson to catch it. "I can imagine.” He took another deep breath and sat upright more properly. "And if I were to tell you Victor and I once... sought and gave comfort... what might be your thoughts?"

Watson turned to look at Holmes with widened eyes and his mouth fallen open in surprise—not so much that Holmes and Victor had been lovers; strangely enough, Watson had suspected that very thing, but that Holmes would come right out and admit it to him. He saw that sharp, watchful grey gaze lower and Holmes' lean features start to go cold and distant before Watson had gathered his wits. Consequently, he spoke hurriedly, "It's—my thoughts are that...” Holmes' eyes came up at Watson's pause to grope for the right words, focussing on Watson's face intently as the man continued. "I think... I'm happy to know you had someone to care for you then.” At the slight rise in Holmes' brows, Watson added, "You deserve to have someone care for you, Holmes."

"Do I?" Holmes asked, sounding somewhere between doubtful and surprised. 

Swallowing the lump trying to form in his throat, Watson recognized the opportunity for what it was, and knew Holmes was unlikely to ever give him another. Having a quick look at the still-closed back door across the garden, Watson lowered his voice as he leaned closer, his shoulder touching Holmes'. "I am certain you have noted the fact that you are my dearest friend, and you cannot have missed that I have made it one of my primary duties to care for you... as much as you'll allow.” 

"Yes, Watson, and I am gratified that this is so," Holmes replied, voice just as low and secretive as Watson's. "However..." He gave Watson a significant look as he orphaned the word in such a way as to make it a prompt for more.

"However..." Watson took up the abandoned sentence bravely, not pretending to misunderstand that he was being asked to match Holmes in honesty. "I am not certain you can know how strongly I believe you deserve to have the comfort and solace which comes from being loved.” It was no surprise that Holmes' breath caught, those dark brows climbing higher as he leaned in the tiniest increment more, and Watson felt the smile curving his lips as he concluded, "Furthermore, I have long wished to make it known to you that... Holmes... Sherlock, I would be the happiest man alive if you... if you would allow me the honour of offering you that love."

Holmes drew in a sudden, uneven breath, one of his hands falling upon Watson's and clutching it tightly, his lean cheeks taking on a sudden wash of pink, even as his grey eyes filled with what Watson could not label anything other than tenderness. "John!” Holmes was the one clearing his throat then, his voice lower and breathier as he finally said, "You cannot know how I have tried to tell myself I could never expect to hear such words from you. To know you feel as I do... it is _I_ who would be honoured... I who _am_ honoured."

If it were not for the police presence in the house nearby, Watson might have given the glad cry inside him its freedom; however, he had to be content with grinning joyfully and squeezing Holmes' hand as tightly in return. "Let us conclude this investigation and go home where we can... discuss... this more thoroughly."

"I could not agree more," Holmes replied, springing to his feet and releasing Watson's hand with obvious reluctance. 

In truth, Holmes did conclude the investigation quite rapidly, explaining the series of events to Inspector Lestrade: how Trevor had not told his illicit lover of his marriage or his son, how his lover had apparently found the remains of a letter Trevor received from his wife—very likely a letter telling him she knew of his infidelity, since it had come to the rooms where his lover was living. The lover had flown into a jealous rage, going inside and killing Trevor with the garden trowel already in his hand before fleeing the house. Lestrade commanded his men to ascertain the name of said lover and to find the man in question, while Holmes and Watson made their way home.

Later, it would be discovered that Trevor's lover had not escaped, but had drowned himself in the Thames, the tragic fact of which Watson would dutifully add to his notes on the death of Victor Trevor. However, he doubted this would be a story he or Holmes would ever want published. Holmes, meanwhile, had requested and received permission to take possession of the late Victor Trevor's hive-boxes, and the pleasant drone of the bees on the roof of 221b thereafter gave a complementary note to the pleasant sounds beneath.

~~~ ~~~


End file.
